


Hunger

by TerresDeBrume



Series: FotSM Verse [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Elves, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:37:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later -much later- people will refer to this as the day people stopped calling him by his true name and used Liquidfire instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of a writing challenge, for the prompt: Restless.
> 
> This takes place during the events of the main novel, about two thousands of years after _Don't stop, don't talk, don't look back_.

It starts in the fingers.  
  
They tingle with unshed magic, fire pooling in their tips until they glow the bright orange of anger, the not-quite-white of life-or-death situation.  
The night falls slowly but the fire builds faster. It squirms, it seethes. It wants and wants and wants, gnawing at the bones and spreading through muscles with barely more than a blink of eye, burning wood and flesh and stone as easily as kindle… The fire demands to be fed, demands to be quenched, and it grows impatient when no food comes forward.  
  
Far in the night, in the dark and cold hours of he earth, there are monsters.  
They dress in fitted garbs of grey and orange fabric that glow in the night like liquid fire, like the ink the nightfolks put in their skin to shine in the dark; and when they burn they make thick black smoke, stinging even the firefolk’s eyes and burning heir lungs… But not his. Not now. Not here. Not after the harm they have spread.

  
“Soon,” he hears, and the smile he gives his friend is sharp and full of teeth, canines honed into fangs specifically for this occasion.

  
Worthless, the knights call him, unruly and unpredictable, and they mislike the sight of his teeth and his hammer -they like the smooth silk of their swords better.  
Tonight though… tonight is his night.  
  
Tonight is a night for street scum, not knights, and every hour that passes makes their bellies tighter and his blood warmer. He burns with the want of it, aches with the need for plunder, for fire and revenge, and he knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that these creatures will not find shelter in heir skins or their shells.

  
“You shouldn’t wish for so much death without reason,” Naleesi says, sword hand coming to rest on his wrist.  
“I have a reason,” he retorts.  
“Yamaël still lives.”

  
 _He will go on living,_  Myranael promises himself.  _And when he wakes, I will lay the heads of his aggressors at his feet so he may feed them to his pet fishes if he so desires._  
  
Myranael sits, close to the gate, and he glows bright hot with battle longing and emotions he dares not name as he urges the moon to rise faster.

  
  
Tonight, the Liquid Fire is thirsty for blood.


End file.
